


The Book of You and I

by isleofdreams



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: 5 Times, Angst, Depression, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Panic Attacks, References to Depression, Sad, Sad Ending, Self-Hatred, Serious, Suicide, Toxic Relationship, no beta we die like men, story is already finished
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:33:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27989268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isleofdreams/pseuds/isleofdreams
Summary: Sometimes, some stories just don’t have a prologue.You try your best to search for an opening, search for where the line starts, where everything starts to fuck up and everything starts to tun to shit. Truthfully, sometimes you just can’t find them. Sometimes you’re thrusted into the middle of a mess, in the middle of a fight between your parents or a ruined relationship. Sometimes, you don’t even know what the fuck is going on.But people expect you to pull through anyway, expect you to be strong.So you give them what they want.Sometimes, some stories just don’t have a prologue. Sometimes, you just have to accept it.(The five times George managed to save Dream, and the one time he didn't)
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 127
Kudos: 283





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> for: [ness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qekyo). thank you for reading and giving me feedback (which is just waterfall images, but still)
> 
> mandatory: these are merely personas of the Dream Team. they do not represent who they are, nor their beliefs. do not harass them about it, and please respect their boundaries. if one of them isn't comfortable with fics being written about them, this will be taken down immediately 
> 
> this is a serious fic. if you've followed me on my twitter, you wouldve seen me talk about it. it's different from my other fluff or even angst fics. you're welcomed to disagree with any of my thoughts, but be civil.
> 
> the book is completed.
> 
> please take this seriously. read through the tags. 
> 
> Content Warnings: depression, panic attacks, a sort of self harm, toxic relationships

Sometimes, some stories just don’t have a prologue.

You try your best to search for an opening, search for where the line starts, where everything starts to fuck up and everything starts to tun to shit. Truthfully, sometimes you just can’t find them. Sometimes you’re thrusted into the middle of a mess, in the middle of a fight between your parents or a ruined relationship. Sometimes, you don’t even know what the fuck is going on.

But people expect you to pull through anyway, expect you to be strong. 

So you give them what they want.

Sometimes, some stories just don’t have a prologue. Sometimes, you just have to accept it.

* * *

George doesn’t know when all of these started. 

Frankly, it’s a mess. He doesn’t know when it had all started, when Dream had spiralled and snapped. He doesn’t know when it had started, when Dream had just stopped talking to his friends all together on Discord and disappeared into thin air. He doesn’t know when it had started, when Dream doesn’t even pick up his fucking calls.

He doesn’t know when it started, doesn’t remember when it all went to shit, but he remembers when Dream had finally called him back.

Four thirty-three in the morning. It was four thirty-three in the morning, and the storm had barely settled into a small downpour.

“George?” It’s a low whisper, something that reminds George white noise in late July, like a fireplace cackling. It’s only when George hears how his voice breaks that he snaps out of his daze. “George?”

“Dream? I’m here.” SIlent, quiet, as if George is afraid he’d disturb and break Dream if he talked too loudly. “Shh, I’m here, it’s okay.”

“Is it though?”

“I don’t know,” George says, sitting up in his bed. “Is it okay?”

“No,” Dream confesses, broken and messed up and torn in ways that George isn’t sure if he can fix him himself. “No, it’s not. I don’t know how to make everything okay. I don’t know if it’ll be okay or not, if it… if everything’s going to turn out okay.”

George breathes out, watches as the rain falls and droplets chase each other down the window, racing to see who hits the ledge. It’s almost peaceful, if not for the worry in his head that’s stirring up a thunderstorm in his heart. “Don’t think too much about it, okay? Take a break, get some rest. Drink water if you need.”

“I’m scared, George.”

“Scared of what?”

“I’m scared of the fact that I might turn into the worst person you’d know.” Dream says, his voice trembling a little, as if he’s confessing a dirty sin that might send him to hell, as if he’s done something wrong that’ll make even the fiercest prisoners quiver in shame. “I thought I’d get better.”

Frankly, George still has zero idea what Dream is talking about, but he doubts that Dream wants to clarify at this point of time.  _ Not now _ , he tells himself. “You will. I believe in you. We all believe in you. I know you will.”

“Do you, though?”

George stays silent, pondering for a moment before answering. “No, I suppose not. I can’t tell the future. But if you do want an answer, the most I can say is to do your best.”

“Yeah,” Dream breathes out, still as shaky as ever, and George wonders what the other must’ve seen to be this scared. “Yeah, thanks George.”

He hangs up before George can put a word in.

It’s four forty when the conversation ends. Yet somehow, George seems to lose sleep afterwards.

* * *

Dream spills the news when they’re on call.

He has since apologised to the others, claiming that he had to take a break. Sapnap yells at him after his apology, pent up worry and anxiety finally releasing like a corked up bottle, while Bad reassures him that he did nothing wrong.

George stays silent throughout the whole ordeal. He doesn’t mention the fact that Dream has contacted him the day before. He figures Dream doesn't want that.

So he keeps quiet when Sapnap rattles off Dream’s ears about how he  _ should’ve _ at least called back or texted, keeps quiet when Bad tries to calm Sapnap down. He keeps quiet when Dream mumbles apologies after apologies until all of those barely mean anything anymore. He keeps quiet when Sapnap disconnects and tells the group he needs a breather, Bad disconnecting soon after for an important meeting (though he reassures Dream that Sapnap is just in the moment before he goes).

He keeps quiet until Dream reaches out to him again.

“George?”

“Yeah?”

“Something’s wrong with me.” Even without facecam on, George can hear Dream frown. “It’s just… I don’t know. I kinda… I’m always sad,”

George hums. “It’s okay to feel sad-”

“No, you don’t get it,” Dream sighs. “I- It’s not just temporarily. I’ve… I’ve had this for a while now, and it’s just  _ there _ , haunting me. I want to achieve more things, explore the world, whatever, because I know I can. But… I can’t.”

George doesn’t really know how to answer that, so he lets Dream ramble on, lets Dream release whatever that has been on his mind. 

“I can’t seem to bring myself to do stuff. I- I can’t code, I can’t play Minecraft, I just want to sit in my bed and not wake up. Sometimes I just… I feel so fucking sad that I don’t even want to function. I can’t function.

“There’s this baggage. The sadness is a baggage that keeps weighing me down and somehow, I can’t seem to get rid of it. I don’t know, George. I want to do stuff, but I can’t.”

“I- I don’t know what to say to that,” George mumbles, his eyes still locked onto Dream’s user icon. 

“No, it’s fine.” And George wants to scream because he knows Dream is far from fine, thank you very much, but he doesn’t know how to convey it. “I’m sorry for just spilling that on you. I shouldn’t have.”

There’s something at the tip of George’s tongue, words that almost fall from his mouth in such a way that it becomes a waterfall of broken promises.  _ I’ll be here for you _ , he thinks, but he doesn’t say it. He’s afraid of what’s to come if he does.

But he does it anyway. Spits it out like it’s venom, as if it’ll kill him to do so. “I’ll be here for you, Dream.”

George doesn’t know why it’s taking him this much to comfort his friend. 

“I’ll take a break now,” Dream says, his words more stable, and George wonders if it’s another facade, another mask that Dream is putting up. “I’ll see you later.”

“See ya.”

Soon, it’s only George in the Discord call. 

* * *

_ I’ll be here for you _

What a bland fucking statement. If you dare to go even closer, and scrutinise the sentence, you’d even see flakes of sugarcoating falling apart, exposing what’s in the core of it all: lies.

You tell people that you’ll be there for them, but since when are you ever? You tell people that they can always call you, always ‘hit you up’, but you’ve been keeping them at arms’ length ever since their rant. You tell people that you’ll be there for them, but when are you truly ever there for them?

The five words are blatant lies, yet some people need to hear them. Despite understanding the severity of leaning on those words, leaning on nothing but empty promises, they’re still holding onto them, like it’s their lifeline. Like it’s the only thing that’s keeping them sane, keeping them from spiralling down in the rabbit hole that’s sadness. 

The five words are blatant lies, empty words, yet to some, they mean the universe to them. 

Maybe that’s why humanity is so fragile. Maybe, we’re relying on words that don’t make sense to us in order to feel better. Maybe, we’re all just broken pieces who are trying to help each other, trying to reach out in order to tell each other that we aren’t exactly alone. 

Maybe we’re just meant to be that way. Broken, but with a promise that we’ll be fixed.


	2. Chapter 2

The calls become more frequent now. 

It happens almost every day, and usually Dream calls him sobbing and scared. Occasionally, George would succeed in calming the latter down, leading him through breathing exercises that Dream had linked to him one day. 

The worry kicks in when George can’t calm Dream down. 

On those days, Dream would hang up the call, leaving George worried and anxious until he receives a text from Dream, telling him he’s fine. On those days, Dream would leave his phone on Do Not Disturb, claiming that he needed space from everyone.

(George thinks those are lies. He doesn’t push, though.)

One day, George lets the words slip out of his mouth.

“Do you want me to go to Florida?”

On the other end of the call, Dream stops moving, his ramble disrupted as he dives deep in thought. “Why the sudden urge?”

“Because,” George rubs his eyebrows, yawning slightly, “you’ve been calling me almost everyday. I’m just concerned, and I think going to you would be better.”

“I don’t think you want to see me like this,” Dream chuckles, sadness leaking through, though there’s a hint of desperation that George picks up on. 

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t think you would understand.”

“Dream,” George says, this time more firmly, “I think it’d be better if I went to Florida. I’ve been losing sleep and you keep pushing people away and-”

“I’m fine, George.”

For once in his life, George wishes he can punch Dream through his monitor.

“You are  _ not _ fine!” George yells. Dream falls silent, “You are  _ not _ okay, Dream, and you know it. I just wish you’d stop fucking pushing us away, because I want to help you. We want to help you, but we don’t know how, and I’m fucking tired of you ignoring our calls and messages!”

There’s rustling coming from the other end, then George hears Dream’s sigh. “Fine, but I just- you’re just going to leave me like everyone else did, and-”

“Dream, I promise I’m not going to leave you.” George says, and the words hang in the air. “I promise.”

(He doesn’t know why he keeps making promises he can’t keep, keeps making promises he shouldn’t keep.)

“Okay,” Dream breathes out, a small smile evident in his tone of voice. “Fine, you can come.”

George lets himself smile. “Alright. I’ll see you in a day or two, Dream.”

“See you.”

* * *

The first thing George notices is how  _ hot _ Florida is.

The second thing George notices is how crowded the airport is.

When he alights the plane, he’s immediately squished by people and suitcases alike. It’s as if he’s packed in a can full of sardines, and soon he’s pushing bodies away from him just to gain some personal space. Thankfully, the customs don’t take long, and he’s released from the sea of people.

After he has sent a message to Dream, his eyes scan the terminal, searching for a spot to wait for the latter. Tired and exhausted, he drags his suitcase to a row of benches and settles down, scrolling through his phone and looking up every so often so that he doesn’t miss Dream.

(Not that he knows how he looks like, yet.)

He doesn’t know how long it has been, but with every second passing, he can feel his annoyance grow. His fingers are twitching, and he’s hungry, yet the other boy still isn’t here.

Anxiety gnaws at his stomach. He wonders if he’s being ‘stood up’ by his best friend. He lets himself wait for another five more minutes.

There’s a tap on his left shoulder, and when he turns around, his eyes only register a boy with golden locks and a lady with brown, straight hair. Convincing himself that he’s just hallucinating, and that he needs  _ something _ in his stomach, he stands up.

Only to be pulled back down by a hand and a laugh that he’s all too familiar with.

“Dream!” George says, maybe with a little too much annoyance as he glances at the blonde haired boy who’s holding his stomach in laughter. Fatigue and tiredness melts away into something more fond as he looks at the boy whom he recognises as Dream.

The boy with messy locks, as if every strand is spun with golden silk and with the hands of God himself, with a smile so wide and bright that even the Sun can’t compare its beams with it. The boy with freckles dusted across his cheeks like constellations in the night sky, as if an artist had made contemporary art with a few careless splashes. The boy whom George had never seen before, the boy-

Dream. 

“Hi,” Dream grins.

George smiles back. “Hey.”

* * *

To be honest, Dream played the facade really well. With bright smiles that can blind the world and wheezes that resemble a tea kettle, if you didn’t scrutinise him, didn’t pick him apart, you’d barely even notice it. If you didn’t squint and see how his viridian eyes seem to dim even when he’s laughing, you wouldn’t notice how internally broken he is.

Don’t blame yourself. That’s how facades work: people use them to hide the scars and battles that they’re fighting. They use them to cover up the ugly parts of themselves, the parts where they don’t want the world to see, because who would want a broken person who’d hurt others in the end.

(George should’ve seen it coming, should’ve seen how Dream is always tired, should’ve seen the slight slouch in Dream’s confident posture. George should’ve seen it coming, in all honesty.

But you can’t blame him for not seeing it, not when Dream is a master at his own tricks, not when Dream has built up walls higher than the clouds.

You can’t blame him, really.)

* * *

It’s nearly past afternoon, and Dream is in bed.

The curtains are drawn tightly, not even letting a trickle of sunlight into his room. The digital clock beside him displays 2:47pm, and while Dream is awake, he doesn’t budge. Everything is dark and quiet, yet there’s a turmoil that’s rumbling in his head, something that he has unfortunately become familiar with.

There’s a small knock on his door. “Dream?”

A crack of light enters the room, George’s light footsteps on soft carpet, and Dream can feel a presence beside the bed. He curls up tighter in his blankets, determined to not let George see his hollow eyes, as if the fabric acts as a shield.

“Dream, I know you’re awake.”

Dream doesn’t answer, not because he doesn’t want to, but because he doesn’t have the energy to. Even if he mustered the will to open his mouth, he wouldn’t be able to search for the right words. 

Everything takes too much effort, and Dream just wants George to go away and leave him alone.

(He’s lying. He doesn’t really want George to leave. He wants George to stay.)

There’s a hand rubbing circles on his back, and Dream almost wants to  _ cry _ from how good it feels. Leaning into the touch, he lets himself take in a deep breath, trying his best to push the weights on his lungs. 

The only word he can muster out is a small, pathetic ‘sorry’.

He feels the mattress dip down beside him, and there’s George who’s looking into his eyes. 

He closes it almost immediately, shuts it before George can see too much, before George can see the way the horizon breaks and the way a storm is brewing, before George can see too much and see how truly broken he is.

(Before George runs away and leaves him.)

“It’s okay.” And Dream tastes cherry ice cream, tastes soft snow on the tip of his tongue and dark chocolate, and something warm pools in his stomach. “But I need you to get out of bed, okay? I prepared lunch.”

He’s not hungry. His stomach is empty from when he skipped breakfast, but he’s still somehow full. He’s still full, and he isn’t hungry, but his stomach is growling at the thought of having something warm. 

He’s too tired to move.

“Can you do that for me?” George tries coaxing again, and he feels a hand on his cheek, feels a thumb rub at the bottom of his left eye. Slowly, he looks at George, looks at the boy with shining brown eyes and pretty face, looks at the work that God has sculpted himself, and shakes his head.

(He can’t. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, he just  _ can’t _ .)

“Please.” And there’s something in how George speaks that makes his heart pound, makes him taste something sweet. His stomach grumbles again. “I need you to get out for me, okay?”

It’s pitiful how George has to use himself as a bait, how George has to convince Dream to even get out of bed. Everything about this is pitiful: how a man in his twenties is too tired to even get out of bed, how this is almost routine for him. Pitiful in the way that he can’t even take care of himself.

But then George is nudging at him, pleading at him to get up. So with a heavy heart and heavier limbs, he forces himself to, drags his body that’s chained by an invisible weight out of bed.

The smile George gives is almost rewarding, but there’s something that’s gnawing in his heart.

(You’re just using George.)

He doesn’t deny it. 

He’s too tired to. 


	3. Chapter 3

On one rare occasion, George doesn’t find Dream in his bed. 

It’s almost two in the morning, and he  _ knows _ the other should be sleeping, should be in bed like a normal person, but when Dream has spent days just cooped up in his room, lacking in energy to even move, George is silently grateful that Dream isn’t found in his apartment.

A note leads George to find Dream on the rooftops.

It’s almost two in the morning, the moon hanging high in the sky, peering down on them as if she’s trying to figure out what they’re doing. Somehow, despite it being past midnight, there are cars still passing by, streets still busy as pedestrians hurry home. Somehow, despite it being close to midnight, the city is still buzzing with life.

George supposes it never sleeps after all.

He watches, somehow mesmerised by the lights and the activities below, that he doesn’t even notice Dream’s staring at him until the other lets out a small chuckle.

“You’ve never been on a rooftop before, have you?” Dream comments, a stick of cigarette in between his index and middle finger. George feels himself frown at it, before turning back to the city lights. 

“No,” he admits and watches as a lady hails down a cab. “I haven’t. Is there something wrong?”

“No. I just expected that.”

George squints, his attention now fully on the other boy. “What do you mean by that?” 

His response receives nothing but a loud wheeze, a trait that George stupidly adores. The wind is playing with his hair, golden locks pushed back in the way that almost makes George jealous by how stunning he looks. Green eyes sparkling even in the midst of the cold December night, a flame that not even the gods themselves can put out. 

A cloud of smoke slithers past Dream’s lips, and George swears that he looks almost ethereal. 

“What are you staring at?” Dream tilts his head, standing with confidence.

George shrugs. “You know what I’m staring at.”

Dream hums, and they fall into comfortable silence once again. It’s routine by now: Dream talks, George listens. 

Sometimes, George wonders if that’s what’s caging them. The expectation that George is always there for Dream, that Dream will always have someone to lean on.

(The world doesn’t work that way.)

“Do you ever just-” Dream sighs, and in the distance, a car honks. “Do you ever just want to fall?”

“I don’t think I understand what you mean.”

“Like, you just want to not feel anything for that one instance, that one moment. It’s like…” Dream stops for a while as he considers. “Like how you’d feel if you were in space.”

“Floating?” The idea itself is wild, unimaginable, and George wonders how much time Dream has spent pondering over these thoughts for them to blossom into such a concept. 

Dream shakes his head. The smell of smoke is mild. “Weightlessness. Like you don’t have any stress at all.”

“I… don’t get it.”

“I can show you,” Dream smiles, turning to George. There’s some sort of a glint, something that represents danger and fear and adrenaline all rolled into one. “I’ll show you.”

He passes the cigarette to George, the latter holding onto it awkwardly as he watches Dream, watches how fluid the other’s movement is, watches how Dream always holds himself like he has the confidence of Aphrodite and the courage of Ares. Green hoodies with a smile, and he wonders how far he has fallen for someone who’s everything and nothing all at once.

He watches as Dream walks towards the edge of the rooftop, the railings long gone and tossed to the sides. He watches as Dream climbs onto the ledge, the last line of defense with weak walls and crumbling bricks, and he doesn’t even realise what Dream is doing until the latter turns back to him and stands upright with arms outstretched  _ at the edge of the roof _ .

“What are you doing?” Panicked, he rushes to Dream, who only returns him a smirk. “You’re gonna fall! Stop!”

“I’m showing it to you, George!” Dream is laughing, tossing his head back, and George watches with a pounding heart and alarms ringing through his head and  _ Dream is gonna fucking fall _ . “I’m showing you how it all feels like! How falling feels like!”

“Stop! Stop showing- come down!” And he can see Dream shuffle, just slightly backwards, so that only the front part of his feet are on the ledge. “What the fuck are you doing, come down!”

“Isn’t this fun?” Dream guffaws, eyes twinkling like the stars in the night sky. “You should join me up here!”

“No!  _ You  _ should join me  _ here _ , back where it’s safe!” George is close to tears, and he can’t do anything other than watch his best friend stand, recklessly and without a care in the world. For a moment, he sees how carefree Dream is, how lively and happy the other is. He almost lets go of the thought of getting Dream to safety.

It’s a pity that Dream finds happiness in rooftop edges and cigarettes. 

Dream has the fucking audacity to  _ twirl _ , and when he loses balance, George’s heart is lodged at his throat as a scream escapes from his mouth. Dream’s laughing, holding his stomach like George has said something funny, as if he hadn’t just fucking  _ died _ right there and then, in front of George’s eyes.

As if Dream isn’t initiating a dance with Death himself, playing hide and seek in a game he’s bound to lose in the end. 

“Watch me, George.” The wind blows, as if it's encouraging him. “Watch how far I can go.”

“Dream, come  _ back _ !”

Dream’s left foot shuffles further back, until all that’s left in contact is his toes. The streets are lively below. It’d be a shame if he fell and ruined the party.

“I’ve gone further, George. I’ve gone further. Do you wanna see me go further?”

“No!” And there’s tears in his eyes, spilling and staining his cheeks, and he almost gives up, almost leaves Dream there because how can someone be so reckless? “Dream…”

In a state of desperation, he collapses to the floor. “Please, Dream. Come back.”

He doesn’t hear it at first, doesn’t hear Dream's footsteps near him, doesn’t hear the way the wind falls slightly, disappointed at the lack of rush and adrenaline that Dream had provided her earlier. He doesn’t hear it at first until Dream places his hand on his shoulder.

He looks up, and there’s Dream, far away from the ledge and on the rooftop, on solid ground and he’s  _ safe _ . “You- you’re a fucking moron! Don’t do that!”

Dream plucks the cigarette (it’s still alive, somehow) from George’s fingers, eyes bright and lively, the flame in him burning brighter than ever as he takes a small puff. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

George wants to scream at him, wants to rip Dream’s face apart and find out what the hell is going on in that wrecked brain of his, wants to tear him apart in every way possible until all that’s left is nothing. George wants to pull him apart and put him back together, and isn’t that fucking ironic? That he wants to simultaneously shatter and piece him back at the same time.

“You-”

“I’m here, George,” he says, softer this time. “I’m here.”

“You’re a fucking  _ idiot _ !” George pushes him, punches him, uses every bit of his energy on Dream, because it’s always Dream that he uses his energy on. “You’re a fucking idiot and a moron and a bitch and- what if you fell?”

“I won’t,” Dream says. “I’ve done this before.”

Dream is so nonchalant that George is almost baffled. “You motherfucker! I hate you so damn much! I fucking hate you, you-”

“George,” Dream tries again, his voice silk and honey-like, smooth and soft. “George, I’m fine.”

“You’re not!” A part of him wants to push Dream away, wants to leave him and let him do whatever reckless things he wants to next, but another part of him yearns to pull Dream closer, pull him into a hug or a kiss or anything that’ll remind George that he’s there, right in front of him.

It’s almost intoxicating, the uncertainty of it all.

“Stop!” Dream grabs George’s wrist so that the latter stops hitting him, pulling George so that he’s staring into Dream’s eyes. “Stop it.”

“You? Telling me to stop?” His heart is pounding, his head muddled. “You’re the one who started this shit, Dream, don’t fucking start-”

Dream just wants George to shut up, wants George to stop talking, so he does it with the only way he knows how.

He leans in, his eyes searching George’s for consent. He can hear the other’s breath hitch. The nod is barely noticeable. 

And when their lips touch, it’s almost devastatingly beautiful.

It’s desperate, and George’s head is swimming because this is all he longed for and all he wanted, but he’s so, so damn tired that he doesn’t even want this anymore. He’s so tired of chasing Dream around, stopping him from being so reckless and from almost killing himself that he caves into it, gives up his senses and all rationality. He’s so tired from everything that he just drops and almost melts into Dream’s lips. 

Pushing against Dream, he pours all his emotions into it. He pours all of his tiredness and his anger and sadness into the kiss, pours everything so that his heart will finally be empty and free. He lets himself go, lets himself fall, and  _ is this what Dream meant? _

Actually, there’s nothing beautiful about this. It’s just devastating, a disaster that’s yet to occur, a storm that’s brewing. There’s nothing beautiful about a broken person who has nothing to lose and another who’s trying his best to help, only to fail in the end. There’s nothing beautiful about depression and how it breaks people, how it tears families apart and ruins relationships. There’s nothing beautiful in the way it drains people’s energies.

There’s nothing beautiful about this at all. 

Yet, somehow, in a sick and twisted way, we find beauty in all the broken pieces and shattered souls.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s a small spark, and George has suspected that it’s been there for a while, lingering unnoticed. It’s a small spark, but it’s enough to ignite a flame and burn the whole place to the ground. 

It’s a small spark that George has somehow created when he tries to drag Dream out of bed, because he’s soon fighting with Dream.

“George, please stop.” Dream clenches his fist, staring at George in the way that makes his stomach twist. “I fucking beg you, stop.”

“Why?” George’s voice is shaking, his shoulder hunched up. He’s shaking, his hands trembling and his legs wobbly and all he can think of is  _ why is he so fucking unstable? _

“You’re… you’re not… helping!” Exasperated, Dream slams his hands down on the table, and even if he felt pain, the pent up anger that he has been feeling towards George covers it up. 

“Then what do you want me to do?”

“Leave me alone!”

The room falls into silence after Dream’s words, and as George looks up through teary eyes, he wishes that he can find regret in Dream’s face. He searches, searches in Dream’s green eyes that used to sparkle in excitement, searches in the downward frown of his lips that seems to be parted with a snarl, searches in between freckles of constellations that he loved to trace. He searches so fucking hard, and wishes that Dream doesn’t mean those words.

When he sees nothing but pure hatred, George swallows a whimper.

It’s so fucking suffocating.

“You mean it?” George whispers, voice cracking in between words, and his lungs seem to stop working with how hard he gasps for air. “Dream, please-”

“Yes, I mean every single fucking word of it!” And everything feels like daggers, shooting directly at his heart and planting them deep, twisting and pulling at his guts. He’s choking, struggling and all he wants to do is to find something to hold onto, to ground himself on so that he doesn’t collapse.

So he reaches out to Dream.

Dream steps back.

“You don’t understand, George,” Dream says, tears running down his face as he furiously wipes them away, glaring at George. “You don’t understand how fucking hard it is to wake up every morning and feel okay; you don’t understand how fucking hard it is to even step out of your bed because there are weights holding you down, and no one understands that.

“You don’t understand how hard it is for me to even drag myself out of the room, to tell myself that maybe today is the day I’ll change. You don’t understand how hard it is to move on when you fuck up some shit, because it’s not that fucking  _ easy _ .

“You just don’t fucking get it, George! And you… I’m afraid you never will.”

“Dream, please,” and George is this close to begging, this close to kneeling on his knees and pleading for Dream to open up, to at least let him into his thoughts. “I love you, and-”

Dream scoffs, taking another step back from George, widening the distance between them. “Oh, George. No matter how much you love me, you’ll never be able to save me.”

George’s throat is closing up, and his entire world is spinning and blurry and he can barely differentiate the beige walls from Dream’s pale skin. He watches Dream, watches how his fists tightens at the edges of his hoodie, the fabric bunching up in his hands. He watches how there’s tears running down his face that he wishes to wipe away, because it’s staining the pretty canvas of his face and even if Dream won’t admit to it, even if his mind won’t allow it, Dream is fucking beautiful.

It’s a shame that he’s looking at his world through such broken lenses that even the most amazing sunsets become the most horrendous storms.

“George,” Dream laughs a little, all broken and messed up, tugging at George’s heartstrings. “George, can’t you see? I’m fucked up. Everything in me is fucked up. There’s all the wrong pieces of me, all the wrong puzzles forced together, all the bad and ugly and I- I’m just fucked up.”

And there’s his small smile, his signature quirk of the lips, the left corner slightly tilted upwards. “I don’t know what good you see in me. It must be tiring. To love someone like me.”

“...It is,” George confesses, because it’s true. It’s draining, even if Dream doesn’t intend for it to be. It’s tiring to play the part of two, to put up the act that everything is okay when it clearly isn’t. It’s tiring to try and drag Dream out of the bed, to show him reasons that there’s something to live for when he himself isn’t enough, to convince Dream that it’s worth the effort to even eat. 

It’s tiring to be the light at the end of the tunnel.

“Why?” Dream whispers, and if it isn’t for George desperately clinging onto Dream’s thoughts, to try and keep up with the never ending charade, he’d have missed the vulnerability that seeped through Dream’s words. “Why me, George? You could’ve gotten anyone, with that pretty smile of yours and the way you never give up. You could’ve gotten anyone, so why me?”

“I don’t know,” George admits. 

The room is quiet. 

“I don’t deserve you.”

“You don’t.”

“Thank you, George.”

George looks up. “For what?”

“For being here for me. For trying your hardest with me. For being… my friend, I guess. I’m sorry to let you down.” The room seems to stop shaking slightly, and George doesn’t even realise he’s on the floor until Dream crawls towards him, sitting just opposite of him. “I’m sorry that I wasted your time.”

“You didn’t.”

“George-”

“Just… trust me on that.”

Dream looks at him, like he wants to believe everything George says but can’t quite grasp the words correctly. Dream looks at him, with tear-stained cheeks and broken hearts and shattered constellations that used to show how the stars aligned just for them, and Dream looks at him and he wonders if Dream realises the damage it has done to the both of them.

George supposes that he can’t fault Dream, for he didn’t choose this himself, but it’s hard not to when Dream is a puppet under depression’s control.

“I want to be here for you, but it’s hard when you… when you push me away like that.”

“I just don’t want you to see the worst in me.”

George grimaces, his fingers tracing circles on the tiled floor, thinking back to the times when Dream doesn’t have the energy to wake up, to the times when Dream doesn’t want to eat, and wonders how bad it can go. “You don’t think I can handle it.”

“I just don’t want you to leave me.”

“I won’t,” George promises, but Dream is laughing, as if everything that George says is a joke, as if they aren’t talking about something morbid that could possibly kill Dream. Dream is laughing, and there’s tears in his eyes, but he’s laughing and George is scared, and he’s terrified at how lighthearted and melancholic Dream looks. “Dream-”

“You will.” Dream grins, and for once, George wishes he isn’t so confident. “You will, George. I know it. I can almost see it. You’ll see the worst in me, the demon that’s controlling me, and you’ll run away like how everyone’s done. You’ll see the shittiest part, and leave, because it’s so fucking horrifying and you’ll be afraid that it’ll suck you up, that I’ll trap you like some sort of glue and you won’t be able to leave this hell forever.

“You will, George, and don’t say you won’t, because I’ve heard that lie so many times I can recite it over and over.” Dream chuckles, rubbing tears from his face. “It’s in my head.”

George bites on his lip, attempting to glare at Dream. “What if I’m different, huh? What if this time someone won’t leave you? How would you know if you don’t even let me  _ try _ , Dream?”

“Because I know you!”

“You don’t know shit about me!” And the temperature seems to rise again, the fire in him dancing almost playfully, and for a moment, a twisted part in his mind cheers when he sees Dream wince. “You think you know me, but you don’t. I’m stronger than I look, Dream.”

Dream stands up. George thinks that he has probably overstepped a line, crossed a boundary that Dream has set up, but he’s so sick and terrified of tiptoeing around Dream and choosing his words that he doesn’t give a shit anymore if he has stepped on the landmine that Dream has set up around him for protection. He doesn’t give a shit anymore if Dream decides to leave this instant, because he’s tired of having to dance with the devil, to play a game of chase that he knows he’s going to lose.

So when Dream turns towards the door, George tries to ignore the streak of hurt in his heart, the tip of the knife that twists itself further. 

“Well, then prove it.”

Just like that, Dream is gone.

* * *

Dream comes back, in the end.

He comes back, and George knows, because doors are creaking and there’s this heavy footsteps that he somehow connects with Dream. George knows, because the lights are turned on and there’s the familiar hum of a coffee machine working, and only Dream uses it. George knows, because even after all the hurt and pain that Dream puts him through, George will still know. 

George will still know because it’s nearly impossible to not know Dream.

He’s huddled up in the guest room, the one that Dream has shown him the first day he had arrived. It’s musty, like Dream hasn’t used them in years, but George doesn’t mind as his headphones blast another song to drown out the ache in his heart.

It’s loud. But with Dream, everything somehow becomes quieter. 

He has cleaned up after the fight, washed his face and combed his hair, even if his eyes are still red and bloodshot and his cheeks are still puffed up. He pretends nothing is wrong, pretends that his soul hasn’t been ripped out by Dream’s words.

He had looked into the mirror and smiled. It’s probably the saddest fucking smile he has ever seen in his life.

The door creaks open, light seeping into what was once a dark room. George closes his eyes, pretends he doesn’t hear Dream’s footsteps inching closer to him, pretends he doesn’t feel his heart beating faster than ever when he feels Dream’s presence near him.

(Somehow, Dream always has this magical effect around George that causes him to be sucked in. He doesn’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse.)

There’s a hand on his shoulder. “George?”

As sick and twisted it sounds like, Dream’s voice reminds him of home.

“George, I know you’re not asleep,” he whispers. “Can I remove your headphones?”

George nods. He feels the weight of his headphones lifted off his ears, sitting on his shoulder soon after. His eyes are still closed, nose still buried in the blanket that he has stolen from Dream’s bedroom. 

“I’m sorry.” It’s a quiet whisper that’s barely audible, but George holds onto his every word like a prayer, as if he’s a sailor lost at sea.

“Okay.”

Dream places a hand on George’s cheek hesitantly, yet the other boy melts into the touch almost instantly. George looks up, looks into viridian eyes that seem to swirl with a thousand storms, looks into the horizon where the sky meets the earth, and he’s falling again.

(Why he falls for Dream, he has no idea. He just hopes it doesn’t break him in the end.)

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m tired,” is all George says. 

Dream smiles a sad smile. “I’ll bring you to my room and we can cuddle?”

George nods and gives in. 

(He keeps falling for Dream, falling for pretty freckles that dots his cheeks like stars and smiles like the universe. He keeps falling, even when he shouldn’t be, even when he knows how deadly Dream can be.

Dream is a drug, and George is high on him.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: please keep in mind that i do not intent to romanticise toxic relationships. im writing george's pov in the way how someone in a toxic relationship is viewing in THEIR shoes (if the explanation makes sense).


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rich text's formatting is so fuckin weird im so sorry if it burns your eyes

George calls Sapnap one night, when everything suddenly becomes overwhelming and he can barely breathe. 

“Hello?” Sapnap’s voice is groggy, as if he had just woken up. “George?”

“I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” George gasps, his fingers gripping his phone tightly so that it doesn’t slip. He feels like he’s choking, feels like his windpipe is crushed by an invisible force and all he can focus on is how the world is spinning in his eyes. “Sapnap, help me.”

George sounds so broken. He wonders where he has started to feel this way.

“George? George!” Sapnap says, almost desperately, his voice seeping with worry. 

“How do I stop this? I- I can’t breathe, Sapnap-” 

“George. Listen to me.” 

And George is trying his best, trying to not let himself fall into the dark void that he knows will just suck him into endless sadness, because he has seen Dream do so, when the latter had teetered too far from the edge. He has seen how it has wrecked Dream from the inside out, broke Dream the way glass shatters into a thousand pieces, the way mirrors split into a million trinkets. He has seen how deadly it can become as it wraps its fangs around Dream’s neck, vines curling around Dream’s mind, and he doesn’t want to become the person he dreads.

So he listens. He tries his best to.

“George, okay. I’m gonna need you to breathe for me, okay?” Sapnap’s voice rings in his ear, and he’s nodding. Everything’s drowning, and if he tries to speak he’s afraid he’s going to get washed away by the waves. “George, okay. Follow me. Breathe in.”

His head is a mess, thoughts whirling around like a hurricane in a storm and he wonders when it will all stop, and his lungs are filled with something heavy and viscous and he’s sure he can’t breathe, he can’t  _ fucking breathe. _ “Sapnap-”

“I’m here, George. Listen to me? Can you do that?”

“I’m trying,” George whimpers. “I’m trying, Sapnap. Please, I promise-”

“I know, George.” Something cackles from the other side, presumably Sapnap shifting. “George, okay, you have to follow my breathing, okay? Focus on me.”

And George tries his fucking best. He tries his best to listen to Sapnap, even if it means that the world collapses around him. He tries his best to concentrate on how Sapnap’s voice sounds like sweet dreams on a cool summer night, or the smell of pine in a park. He tries his best to listen, even if his heart is racing and his hands are shaking and he tries his best to listen because Sapnap’s possibly the only person who knows the next step for him, who knows how to pull him out of this spiral.

“Okay. Breathe in with me, okay? Four seconds in. One, two-”

There’s tears in his eyes, and the dripping faucet is too fucking loud for his liking, but he holds in the scream that’s threatening to rip his throat apart. It comes out as a shaky hum as he focuses on Sapnap’s counting, listens to the way he curls his ‘r’s and the way his voice always dips at the end of each sentence.

“Hold your breath for five seconds. Follow me, okay? Focus on the numbers. One, two-”

And he thinks about the way Sapnap mumbles, soft yet firm, a part of him that George barely sees due to how chaotic he often acts. He focuses on how Sapnap’s voice is a little ragged, maybe scratchy, but it still fills his heart, fills in the emptiness that keeps growing. 

His lungs are aching, begging to release the air that’s trapped, yet somehow it grounds him, returns him to reality. He can slowly feel the coolness of his phone’s back, even though his fingers are still numb. 

“Breathe out for seven. One, two-”

He’s still shaking, and the world is still spinning, but he can clearly see the pale blue tiles on the floor now, the gaps more obvious. His finger subconsciously traces it, feeling the rough edges of it. The dripping faucet doesn’t seem as loud anymore.

“We’ll repeat this, okay?”

And George let's Sapnap guide him for two more times, let's Sapnap count the seconds down as he tries to regain the feelings in his limbs again. He lets Sapnap’s voice drape over him like a weighted blanket, and for once in his life he’s convinced that everything’s okay.

“Are you feeling better now?” Sapnap asks, and his voice is clearer. 

“Yeah,” George breathes out. “Yeah. Thanks, Sapnap.”

Sapnap only hums. “So… is there anything you want to tell me?”

“I- I don’t want to burden you or anything-”

“George.” Sapnap says, this time firmer. “I am your friend. You can talk to me, okay? I want to help you too.”

_ I want to help you too _ .

That’s what he told Dream, when Dream had told him about the darkness that’s plaguing his mind. That’s what he told Dream, when the other had pushed him away countless times, told him that he was fine. That’s what he told Dream when the other is too stubborn and too tired to listen to George. 

That’s what he told Dream, when he’s still not as broken. 

Something went wrong in between, and he doesn’t know what.

“He- Are you sure, Sapnap? I really don’t-”

“George.” And he knows that that’s final.

So like a dam that’s ready to break, he pours it out. The words that come out barely make sense to him, but he spits it out anyway, blabbers it out like he can’t hold it in any longer. He tells Sapnap about what happened on the roof (though he leaves out the kiss), their fight, and everything is about Dream, Dream,  _ Dream _ that he wonders when he’s going to be the part of the story.

When he’s done, Sapnap remains quiet. Then, a shaky breath is heard. “What in the entire fuck.”

“I want to help him, I really do,” George sighs, letting his head fall until it hits the beige walls behind him. “But it’s hard.”

“Okay, George. I want you to think this through. Are you happy?”

George wants to say yes, wants it to escape from his mouth as quickly as possible, but there’s something holding him back, an invisible leash pulling him back. So he bites on his lip, and whispers a quiet ‘I don’t know’.

The hesitation is enough for Sapnap to see through George’s facade. “Look, I know you want to help Dream, but you’re hurting too, George. You need to take care of yourself.”

“I’m fine, Sapnap.” It comes out harsher than he intends. “Sorry.”

“You’re not. You’re literally barely holding on. What has Dream done to you?”

George doesn’t know what he means, and he isn’t sure if he wants to know, either. “He’s done nothing to me.”

“Okay. I have another question for you, then. How’s Florida like?”

George thinks back to the day when he had landed in Florida, when Dream had picked him up. “It’s… nice.”

“Really? Where did you go?”

“We just walked around town. Sapnap, look, I’m here to help Dream, not go on a vacation or something-”

“Are you listening to yourself?” Sapnap sounds almost angry, frustrated. “You’re literally- everything’s about Dream, Dream, Dream. Since when has it ever been you?”

“It’s- Sapnap, you don’t under _ stand _ ,” George groans, annoyed at how stubborn Sapnap is. No wonder he clicked so well with Dream. 

“No, I do understand, George.”

George is close to tearing his hair off. Sapnap isn’t listening to him. “He’s  _ depressed _ , Sapnap, I need to-”

“You don’t  _ need _ to fix him!” Sapnap yells. “You’re on the brink of exhaustion. Hell, I’ll bet that you look like fucking  _ shit _ right now, because everything’s just about Dream, isn’t it?” Sapnap chuckles, though it’s devoid of any humour at all. “Think, George! Just because he’s depressed doesn’t mean you have to sacrifice yourself to save him!”

“But-”   
  


“You’re his  _ friend _ , George. Not his therapist.” Sapnap growls out. “Your job isn’t to  _ fix _ him. You can’t fix people, and you have to accept that. You can’t- it’s not how it works. He’s not some sort of a fucking project! You can’t fix a human no matter how hard you try.”

George stays silent. His head is filled with thoughts, most of them about Dream, but Sapnap’s words have ignited some sort of flame in him, something that he has neglected in a very long time. Perhaps it’s the way he kept putting Dream as his priority, always putting him as his number one, that he has forgotten about  _ himself _ . Perhaps it’s the way the strong front that he has put up for Dream is falling, crumbling into ashes and smoke until all that’s left is just him.

He’s so, so sad and so, so tired. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he confesses, rubbing at his eyes. God, he’s tired. His soul is yearning to rest, and his heart just wants to stop beating for a moment. “Sap, I… fuck-”

Before he knows it, he’s crying again.

“George,” Sapnap says pitifully, “this is long overdue, huh?”

George is pressing a palm against his mouth as he tries to smother his sobs, trembling at the effort in doing so as he gasps. His mind is so damn tired, limbs heavy and all he wants to do is to sleep the pain away, to put himself into projects after projects until all he can think of is them and nothing else. He wants to rest, wants to just throw his burden out of the window and  _ isn’t this pathetic? You’re all alone, crying in the bathroom while your boyfriend’s out after hours of you coaxing him to do so. _

He’s so worried about Dream that he doesn’t realise he himself is spiralling until it’s too late.

Sapnap’s voice is beside him, a low hush to calm George down as the latter lets out his worries and fatigue in tears. There’s a constant reminder in George’s ear that Sapnap’s always with him, and for once, he trusts Sapnap. 

He falls asleep to the sound of sweet dreams on a cool summer night and the smell of pines. For once, it’s a peaceful slumber.

* * *

They’re fighting again.

It’s all ugly, and Dream isn’t  _ himself _ , now that George has talked to Sapnap. Dream isn’t himself, and he needs serious help, because the light in his eyes are growing dimmer and dimmer everyday, no longer the bright green grass or the way the horizon meets the sky and the earth. Instead, it’s more of a disgusting murky green, something akin to algae on rotten water.

(George doesn’t know if he has much time left.)

“It’s not my responsibility, Dream.” George is gripping the edge of the counter, eyes hardened as he glances at Dream. “It’s not my responsibility to make sure you’re eating, to make sure you’re taking care of yourself.”

“I thought you’re here for me,” Dream argues back, disappointment and anger seeping through. “You said that, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I did, but you can’t keep relying on me!” 

“Then who do I turn to?”

There’s a twinge of guilt gnawing at the bottom of George’s stomach, curling at the way Dream’s voice dropped in pity, but he holds himself together before he can cave in. “Go to a therapist. Or a counsellor. I’m not here to-”

“I  _ can’t _ ,” Dream pleads, eyes watery. George has to look away. “I can’t, I don’t-”

“You can’t, or you just don’t want to?”

Dream pauses, falters just slightly, and George can see the cracks more clearly now, black ooze seeping out from the boy he used to -  _ still _ \- love, staining silk-like hair and honey voice.

There’s nothing beautiful about this at all.

“Dream,” George tries again, tired and worn out and he just wants this fight to stop, to just get Dream a therapist or whoever’s more experienced than him. “Dream, listen. I can’t-”

“You can’t do this.”

_ Don’t break.  _ “Yes, I can’t. I admit to it, I’m sorry, and-”

“You can’t do this,” Dream whispers, vulnerability like broken glass, leaving George in nothing but cuts and bruises. “You can’t do this.” And he chants it like a mantra, as if it doesn’t hurt George, and for once the latter realises how hurtful Dream can be, even with words.

“Dream-”

“Then why did you come here?” Dream looks up into George’s eyes, tears threatening to flow. “Why did you come here then?”

George wants to scream, wants to shake Dream and wake him up from whatever daydream he’s in, because in all honesty George is close to falling off the edge himself. “Because I thought I could do it at first. Because I thought it’s so fucking easy, but you’re not-”

“I’m not easy to deal with.” His voice is monotonous, devoid of any emotions, but George can see tears flowing down his face. “I’m sorry.”

“You need a-”

“I don’t  _ need _ a therapist!” Dream roars. “I just need someone who’ll be  _ there _ for me, unlike you, George. I just need someone who’ll  _ listen _ , who’ll-”

“And I was there!” George is furious, teeth gritting together in a flurry of rage, and all he wants to do is to  _ break _ something.

(Deep down, he hopes Dream isn’t the something he’s going to break.)

“I was there, Dream!” It’s like explaining to a kid why he can’t get candy before dinner, except he’s dealing with a grown up that can’t see why he’s hurting everyone around him. “I was there, when you’re all sad and all tired and I tried my best! I was there, when you had no one to turn to and I gave you my number, Dream! I gave you my fucking number and put you at top priority and you just keep calling and calling and I picked up every  _ single one  _ of those fucking  _ calls _ because I’m scared of losing you! I flew here because you  _ needed me _ !”

George rubs at his eyes, and he hates how there’s tears flowing down his face because that’s a sign of weakness, a sign that he’s frustrated and angry. “I fucking gave up  _ everything _ , Dream! You’re too blinded to see it!”

“I’m sorry,” Dream whispers, curling up on himself. “I’m sorry I was a burden.”

“You’re not a burden.” And George hates how he keeps searching for excuses for Dream, searching for reasons for him to keep holding on. “I just need to put myself first before you.”

“I am a burden. I’m sorry.”

“You are not-”

“Why are you still helping me?” Dream whimpers, lips curled into a pout. “How are you still here? You’re just wasting your time, aren’t you?”

“I am not-”

“I’m sorry.” And it’s those two darned words again, the words that always eat George up alive, that always pulls George into this sinkhole of guilt. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

And it always pulls him back. Pulls him back to Dream.

(Somehow, George always returns to Dream. Somehow, even with broken pieces and tears, George always returns to Dream. 

It’s like he’s running in an endless loop.)

“Fine.” George caves in, lets Dream win again. “Fine.”

(It’s unhealthy. Sapnap has warned him before.

But how do you leave when you can’t even find the light at the end of the tunnel?)

Dream finally cracks a smile. “Thank you, George. I love you.”

(It's a smile that's flawed, a smile that just shows how the weak the both of them are. Pushing, teetering on the edge of the world, until all they have is each other and no one else and George wonders how they've come to this stage.)


	6. Chapter 6

Dream is gone.

He has left silently, just like how the wind dies after a raging storm. He has left silently, just like how the trees stop swaying after the wind stops. He has left silently, quietly.

Just how he liked it to be.

The rooftop is secluded off with bright yellow tape with black stripes, and the first thing that George thinks of when he sees it is that it resembles a bee.

Dream is gone, and George likes to think that at his last moments, he has no regret. He likes to think that at his last moments, Dream had climbed onto the ledge, a cigarette stick in between his index and middle finger. He likes to think that at his last moments, Dream had his arms open, his feet edging closer and closer until all that’s left are his toes.

He likes to think that at his last moments, Dream has finally experienced what falling feels like.

He just kind of wishes Dream is here to explain to him how it feels like. Perhaps show him too.

“Hey, George. You ready?” Sapnap is by his side, his hand on his shoulder, and all that George can think of is how different honey sounds like from pines.

He breaks away from his daze, breaks away from the daydream that he keeps slipping into, the daydream that contains a boy that’s broken and a pretty smile, and looks at Sapnap. 

“Am I ever?”

“No,” Sapnap confesses, voice dipping at the end. “But I suppose we can try. Try to make it all better, y’know.”

“He kissed me,” George mumbles, the ghost of Dream’s lips haunting him. If he had closed his eyes and pictured hard enough, he could almost see freckles splatter across blushing cheeks, the weight of his lips against Dream’s. 

“Should’ve known,” Sapnap chuckles, devoid of any happiness. “He’s always liked you. A different kind.”

George lets the words fall from his mouth before he can stop them, before he gets too scared and backs away again. “Do you think I could’ve saved him? I could’ve catched him?”

Sapnap watches George, bright eyes dimming slightly. “Do you want an honest answer?”

“Yes.”

“No.” Sapnap’s breath forms in front of him, and George is reminded of smoke and cigarettes. “No, you couldn’t have saved him, no matter how hard you’ve tried. It’s not just a… just a heat of the moment thing, George.”

He stares at Sapnap, but where pain is supposed to blossom, where despair and sorrow is supposed to wrap around him like vines with thorns, all that’s there is numbness. His mind is blank, and he wonders if he has accepted Dream’s fate a long time ago, when the latter had spiralled further.

“I loved him.” George can almost feel how Dream’s fingers lingered on his arm. “I don’t know. I loved him.”

“Yeah, but sometimes love isn’t enough.” Sapnap watches as George’s grip on Dream’s blanket tightens. “You watch movies about love and how it has healed someone, but it’s never enough. It has never been, not when healing relies on yourself.”

He lets out another sigh. “But who’s to say you can’t use love as a catalyst to heal yourself?”

“What does that mean?”

Sapnap’s dark eyes land on George, gaze following the latter’s movements. “Well, sure, you can surround yourself with people who love you, but you can’t just always rely on others. In the end, depression is a lonely journey. You have to climb the mountains yourself in order to conquer it.”

George frowns, and for the first time, he meets Sapnap’s eyes. “Since when are you this knowledgeable?”

There’s something swimming in those dark abysses, something that almost painfully reflects Dream’s eyes. “What can I say? Dream and I aren’t too different after all.”

* * *

You have to understand that there are two types of people here: one that doesn’t trust at all, and one that trusts too much.

Those who don’t trust builds up walls, builds up any type of defense they can get their hands on as they cover themselves in glass shards and thorns. They threaten anyone who comes close to them, hisses when someone tries to find a crack, a weakness in them. They stay far, far away from loved ones, encompassing themselves in work or activities that drains them.

Those who trust, however, pull people in. They choose to give and give and  _ give _ until all that’s left of them is an empty shell of a human that’s once filled with soul and life. They choose to give to others even when they don’t have enough for themselves, choose to see others happy because they themselves aren’t. Everyone loves them, but once they realise the true horrors underneath, they will all scatter and pretend they haven’t been taking.

Everyone loves the idea of having everything, but nobody likes the idea of being nothing.

You see, humans are a selfish, selfish breed. We take everything like the greedy packs of wolves we are, not even leaving a crumb for others. We take, take and  _ take _ until all that’s left of Earth is a broken shell. Then, we deem it not enough, and start taking from ourselves, too. Wars were started, lands conquered, people harmed, all just for somebody to be fucking happy with what they’ve gotten.

But no one is truly happy, right? When you’ve never learnt how to give, you’ll never know how important or valuable something is until it’s ripped from your own bare hands.

Sometimes people just need to lose things to remember how important that meant to them.

* * *

The letter is in George’s hand.

It’s heavy, even though it’s just a piece of paper. It’s heavy in George’s hand, because even though it’s just an envelope with (what he assumes) is a piece of paper, he knows that the words are going to mean so much more than that.

“Are you going to open it?” Sapnap asks. 

The journey back is quiet. Sapnap doesn’t offer the aux cord to George. George doesn’t ask for it either. Without Dream, it all feels weird, as if they aren’t supposed to be having fun.

(Not now, anyway. Not when wounds are still healing and hearts are still mending.)

The letter is heavy in George’s hand, but he flips it over like it’s nothing as he examines the edges of the yellowed envelope, a small smiley face drawn at the flap of the envelope. Two small dots and a fucking bracket.

George almost tosses the letter out of the car, almost lets the wind carry it wherever it goes and lets the weight off his heart, but he stops himself in time. Carefully, he shoves the letter into his pocket. 

“No.” 

(Not now, anyway.)

Sapnap hums. 

The letter is heavy, but George pushes the thought of Dream away, shoves it to the back of his mind, and watches as trees pass them in a flurry.

Maybe one day, he’ll be more ready to open it. Maybe one day, when he isn’t still hurting, when he isn’t as vulnerable. Maybe he’d have the courage to open the letter, to read Dream’s last words to him. Maybe one day he’ll finally be over the boy with golden locks and viridian eyes, with green hoodies and a smile, cigarette in between his fingers with an air of confidence, and he’ll open the letter.

Maybe one day, but not now, anyway.

Now, George needs to focus on himself. 

He closes his eyes. For once, he doesn’t think of pretty smiles and silk-like voices. 

* * *

Sometimes, some stories just end earlier than the others.

You try your best to continue writing, your pen scratching on the surface of the paper as it runs out of ink, the indents barely visible to the eye. Sometimes, you run out of pages, run out of words to say, and all you want is to start anew, fresh from page one.

Sometimes, you don’t even realise you’ve come to the end of a story until it’s too late.

But people expect you to keep writing anyway, even if other stories have ended. They expect you to let words find themselves on pages, let ink seep into the yellowed paper as you try your damn best to continue. You’re wrecking your head for more, for more vocabulary to wow the readers and to show that you’re here, you’re present, but your mind is blank and all that you can do is to let the pen guide you to where it belongs.

Sometimes, some stories just end earlier than the others. Sometimes, you just have to accept it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! this is the last chapter for the official storyline, but there is another bonus chapter so... i'll probably do the thanks and gratitude tomorrow :]


	7. Chapter 7

_ George, _

_ We’ll skip past the formalities, the ‘how do you do’s, because I know you hate them. It makes you awkward, makes you feel like you’re talking to a stranger, so I’ll just say whatever’s on my mind right now. _

_ I’m sorry. I truly am. I don’t know what came over me, it’s just… I don’t know, I’m just blinded by this sudden rage towards the entire world, and I lashed out on you. It’s like… I’m not satisfied with myself, y’know? I just hated how everything’s so bleak and numb and nothing mattered, so I just turned towards anger. _

_ When you’re blindfolded, even the brightest lights at the end of the tunnel are useless.  _

_ I hurt you. I hurt you, and I am really sorry. In the process of trying to figure out what the fuck went wrong with my brain, I somehow dragged you into this mess. I shouldn’t have, y’know? I shouldn’t have dumped everything on you and expected you to handle it. _

_ It’s my problem. They’re not yours, but I suppose that it’s too late to say it, not when I’ve broken you into someone you aren’t. I’ve turned into the worst person that even I don’t want to face. _

_ Sometimes I wish I never met you. Maybe, then, you’d have a better life, one without me or my shitty problems. _

_ Do you feel the same way too? Do you regret the times we’ve had together? Because I do. I regret the times I’ve made you laugh, the times I’ve made you smile - that stupid blushing smile and I regret the times we’d ever shared because I’d get too attached to you and it’s never good to be attached to someone, isn’t it?  _

_ That’s the first mistake I’ve made. I got too attached to you. _

_ And when phone calls turned to that dreadful visit, I wished you never saw that side of me. That rotten, horrifying side that makes me into nothing less than a monster. I wished I never opened up to you, never talked to you ever again. I wished I kept my fucking distance so that you wouldn’t be pulled into this turmoil that is my life. _

_ Yet, I still did. I don’t know why. It’s perhaps the way I had always relied on people until they left me, like a leech. I’m a leech, and by staying with you, I had sucked the life out of you. I had turned you into this soulless, broken shell of a human, and I will never forgive myself for it. _

_ Do you still remember the day on the rooftops? When I had asked you if you had felt what it’s like falling? _

_ I take it all back. I wish, no, pray to the gods, that you never, ever experience that. _

_ I’ve taken too much from you, and if there was a way to return everything, I would return all of it. _

_ This isn't your fault. You were there for me even when I pushed you away, even when I broke you. Somehow, George, you were optimistic enough to even see the beauty in me. _

_ How do you even find beauty in such a broken, shitty person like me? _

_ I don’t know what you saw, but I hope to god that’s who you’ll remember me as. _

_ I’m sorry. I wish I could say more, spill my heart out, but I can’t. I was never the type to write on a piece of paper.  _

_ I’ve decided to end here. Finish my book here. _

_ You, however, still have a lot to live for. The chapters of your life are endless, a sea of opportunities in front of you. And if chapters are stages of life, I hope that you’ll end our chapter here, seal it for good. Move on.  _

_ Be happy, George. You deserve it. _

_ I love you. _

_ ~ Dream. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and thats it. you've reached the end for TBOYAI
> 
> imma be honest with you, i wrote this because i was tired of people romanticising depression. i've seen fics and books where the main character has depression (or any other mental illnesses) and they get better solely because 'oh someone else loves me' or whatnot. doesn't work that way, and im tired of seeing it, so i wrote this book myself.
> 
> yes, i've experienced dream's recklessness and anger before. yes, i've experienced george's worry and spiral before. sapnap’s going to be okay, george is too, if that’s what you’re wondering. this book is the closest to my thoughts that you can get, because rpf suicides aren’t the most comfortable thing to write about since they’re still, in the end, real people. 
> 
> so, i’d like to thank anyone and everyone who has decided to give this book a chance. it’s obviously very different from my other fluff or angst books, since this touches on a completely different topic. the support that you’ve given to me is more than enough, so thank you for that. 
> 
> i also would like to thank VE for being here. hey guys, if you see this, i love you. special thanks to ness (qekyo on ao3) for reading over parts before this is published and sending waterfall images. i love you buddy. 
> 
> and to everyone out there who’s struggling, depression or not, i just want to tell you to be gentle with yourself. it’s okay to take time off. 
> 
> if you wanna see what i’m working on, or just talk to me (cause i’m cool :) just head over to my twitter, which i’m sure is... somewhere below. 
> 
> i love you guys. thank you. 
> 
> ~abby

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: @ISLE0FDREAM


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